Memories, Regrets, Hopes, and Glory
by Ajariel the Bloody
Summary: Albus Dumbledore reflects on a long gone past, and tries to save the future. Harry Potter is entrusted with the fate of the world, and with another kind of mission, one to give closure to himself and another man over his Headmaster's death. Reviews adored


**Hello, fellow FanFictionneers. I know it's been quite a while since I've been an active author on this website****, three years, to be precise. Think I've grown more mature in that time? This fictional piece isn't necessarily a great big comeback to the fantabulous world of fanfiction, it's just me poking a bit of fun of the net, and trying my hand at Albus Dumbledore/ Gellert Grindelwald slash. I was never much into the Romance genre (Horror and Drama are more my things), but I've always liked a good slash story. And what's even better: it's in canon, now. To the best slash pairing!**

**Set during Half Blood Prince, for now. Is subject to change.**

**How, now, a rat? No, a disclaimer, in very few words: Keep it simple, peeps, this website is called **_**Fan**_**Fiction.**

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Albus Dumbledore sighed as his right hand thoughtfully caressed his long, silver-white beard. With his left, he held a dark blue quill. His eyes gazed into the past, into long-gone memories that he ought to have forgotten ages ago. It would do him well, to stop dwelling on the past. These memories would destroy him.

He vigorously shook his old head, barely managing to keep his gold and blue pointed hat in balance. He was Headmaster, after all. He would not let his students see that he was not always a standing pillar, a symbol of stability in these troubled times. He couldn't afford it, when the remains of a seemingly secure world came crumbling down around him.

If he had to be the flag bearer of so many, for a new world, a protector, then so be it. Until he died, he would not show his weaknesses, he would not fail the hopes so many had thrust upon him.

So much rested on his weary shoulders, he wouldn't be frail. Especially when even more rested on Harry Potter's shoulders, and he was showing no signs of giving in. Especially when the young man demonstrated so much faith in his Headmaster.

Dumbledore wasn't blinding himself: Harry's mission was grander than his own. He simply needed guidance. Dumbledore's wrinkled visage sketched an ironic smirk at that thought. Guidance. Yes, he was so good at guiding, giving advice to others. Yet never had he listened to any advice, even less his own. He had never been good at doing what he told others to do.

Constantly he told Harry that love was powerful, a magic so powerful it immunised him against Lord Voldemort. A magic so powerful he was protected against evil. A magic that would triumph all. How ironic it had been Dumbledore's weakness, his downfall!

How, in his case, love had been so powerful it had vanquished his reason, had immunised him against common sense, had protected all the evil of the world against what was still good, pure, and innocent!

Dumbledore had a mirthless, sad, unpleasant smile. The taste in his mouth was sour, as though he had sucked dry a lemon. He spat out the sourness in a hushed mutter that died on his lips:

"Gellert…"

On his lips the word felt none too sour. On the contrary, it was intoxicating, he felt it sensuous, albeit dead.

What had he done, how could he have allowed it? He refused to fall back into his reminiscences. He knew he would never be a free man, his haunting past forever taunting him, but he had to cast it aside, to push it away. It would come back to torture him, he knew it, but tonight, he was doing something grander than himself altogether: he was playing his part for Harry, who had the fate of so many in his hands.

When he had been young, he had been in a situation such as Harry was now in. Only he, with his foolishness, had not seen it. He had preferred to stay blinded, wrapped in a comfortable illusion, than to act, and open his eyes to the fact that so many lives depended on his current actions. How many lives had been exterminated because he had chosen wrongfully? According to popular belief, and to himself, way too many.

This time, when the opportunity was coming, again, for the second time in his life, he would not fail. He would play his part, not, by inaction, facilitate the spread of evil.

Yet, more than the cold-blooded slaughter of so many people, painful as it was, it was _that_ day that came back ceaselessly to torture him even more.

Ah, yes, those memories would destroy him.

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**So, that's all for tonight, folks. I'd like to make this more than a one-shot, because as lazy as I am, I feel this perhaps had some inspirational potential, and after reading so much Grindeldore fiction, I wanted to try myself. But, if I'm to be motivated to do this, I'd like to know if it's even going to be worth my time writing. What do you think? Would you review and keep on reading the rest of this? Please read, review, and tell me what you think. Any anti-gay flames can be sent to J.K. Rowling, because she's the one who said dear old Dumbles was homosexual and had had a thing for Grindelwald. You know my position on the subject: I love this pairing, and I think that if you want my whole opinion on anti-gay people, go read my author note for 'A Compromise Towards Love'. Not necessarily the story, just the author note. Thankies.**


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